


god make me a stone

by sarahmonious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Catatonic Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Gen, Hell Trauma, Hurt Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahmonious/pseuds/sarahmonious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 2012. Episode coda for 7.11 Adventures in Babysitting. Dean knew Sam's grip on reality was slipping. But so is his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	god make me a stone

The burning of Bobby’s body had gone without a hitch. The air was sharp and cold, the tinder withered dry, snapping as the fire spread fast. Neither of them said anything. It wasn’t like their father, when grief felt like a physical thing pressing down on their shoulders. Not even Sam had any tears to give this time. Now it was just a weariness and numbness that should have been alarming in its intensity.  
  
It was almost impossible to believe how much worse things had gotten.  
  
Dean didn’t remember much after throwing his new favorite lighter on the pyre and the three fingers of whisky he swallowed right after, but he figured that was okay.  
  
*  
  
Dean didn’t mind so much not being able to sleep, but without periods of unconsciousness it left more time for his mind to wander, which was unacceptable. Fortunately, he had a fucking Leviathan to hunt down.  
  
While Sam quietly puttered around Rufus’s piece of shit cabin or tried to doze, Dean commandeered his laptop and went to work. When his legal pad became full, he moved on to note cards and newspaper clippings and screen captures that spread across the dilapidated clapboard. They weren’t eating much, didn’t have much of a desire to, though every so often it seemed as though a half a sandwich would appear next to the laptop, and his empty whisky glass would be taken away and replaced with a bottle of water.  
  
Dean didn’t acknowledge Sam’s insistence on a substitute beverage, though neither did Sam.  
  
Despite the organization of notes and information, Dean’s head felt… scatterbrained. At one point, Sam had to physically force him to stand up and go take a shower, though once inside the bathroom, Dean stood and stood and stood, not sure what he was supposed to be doing. Was he looking in the mirror? What was he looking for? Did he have to take a piss? He couldn’t tell.   
  
Minutes or perhaps hours later he thought he saw Sam’s slightly panicked eyes staring back at him, but then the next thing he knew he was laying on the couch with a light sheet covering him. It was dark out. His hair was barely damp.  
  
“Hey,” Sam said, voice soft and rough. “You all right?”  
  
Dean blinked. “Peachy,” he grunted back, and then slept for a whole four hours.  
  
*  
  
 _You probably drank it without noticing,_  Sam had said. Except, not really, since beer didn’t drink itself, and Dean knew, he  _knew_  he didn’t. Didn’t he? It wasn’t exactly like he was counting every bottle, but goddamn, he had just set the bottle down for a second, and then when he picked it back up….  
  
He didn’t know why he kept running the scene over and over in his head hours after it had happened. It wasn’t important, and he had had far greater lapses in reality over the years; if something like this would have happened not three years ago, Sam would have called him an old fart and Dean would’ve just elbowed him in the stomach. But as it was, Sam had shut the front door quietly behind him, off to check in on some snot-nosed kid, and Dean made good time finishing off the rest of the twelve pack, numbers and their many multitudes of meanings tumbling through his head.  
  
*  
  
When he ran into the warehouse, he felt like he was swimming through a dream. He’d done this before. He knew how this went. The air was always cold, the warehouses always looked the same, and the stench always twisted up his insides, reminding him of places he’d rather not think about. Maybe he was in an infinite loop. Maybe he’d always been doing this.   
  
He swung and punched and fell and grunted because that’s what was supposed to happen. He watched himself give in to the vetala’s demands, dropping the knife. Like it was part of the script.   
  
The stench was threatening his gag reflexes.   
  
“He can’t help you,” Dean heard, so so far away. “No one can.”  
  
 _Jesus Christ,_  his breath punched out of him,  _I’m back in Hell. I’m back in Hell._    
  
None of this was real. He was going to watch Lee finally succumb to the vetala poison, Sam get his throat ripped out, and Krissy gutted to death. And then the whole scene would start right back up again, and he would be helpless to watch over and over again until he picked up the knife and got there first—  
  
No… not possible, as Krissy had just impaled the vetala herself, and… what the fuck was going on? He blinked back to awareness just in time to see the other creature stalk towards him, but before he could barely get his knife up to defend himself, the vetala was crumbling to the floor, Sam breathing with exertion over it.   
  
He was losing his goddamn mind.  
  
*  
  
 _Dean? Dean? You fucker don’t do this to me. You can’t leave me too, not after all of this. I can’t… I won’t be able to go on, okay? Do you understand me? I won’t be able to go on. You’ve been lying on this bed for three goddamn days. C’mon, man. I—  
  
Leave me alone, please, just this once… fuck. Shit, shit. He’s my brother. Shut the fuck_ up.  _  
  
Dean, just look at me. I’m right here. I’m right here, goddammit. Please. Please._  
  
*  
  
He woke up with his head feeling stuffed full of cotton and his eyes drier then the Sahara. And holy crap, his bladder seconds away from exploding.  
  
He palmed a shaky hand on the nightstand, about to give a heave-ho, when the bathroom door opened and Sam stumbled out, rings so prominent under his eyes it looked like he had gone a few rounds with, well, Dean.  
  
“Sam?” he croaked out, a panic steadily rising within him.  
  
Sam’s face screwed up, and Dean knew that look, knew it since the kid had been in diapers and had his favorite Matchbox car taken from him.   
  
“You wouldn’t wake up,” Sam said in a shaky voice. “ _You wouldn’t wake up,_  you asshole.”  
  
This was delicate territory, it seemed. One wrong word and Sam might fall down the rabbit hole. “Sammy? What happened?”  
  
“You went catatonic, that’s what happened. Or something. Three days ago I walk in here and half your bottle of Jack is gone and you’re just  _staring_  and….” Sam swallowed. “I laid you down. You kept… crying. You weren’t even blinking or making any noises or anything. I had to close your own eyes for you, and I just….” He squeezed the palm of his hand, breath coming more ragged.  
  
“Hey.” Dean got up and guided Sam to his own bed. “I’m here, okay Sammy? I’m not leaving.” Sam twitched a little at that, but Dean just pushed him under the covers. He then fell with a small groan back on his own bed, wondering if he should say anything, or just let it go.   
  
He sighed.  
  
“I think I’m pretty fucked up right now, Sam,” he said softly, and Sam looked away, up at the ceiling, biting the inside of his cheek. “I know you are too. And I’m sorry the only thing I can promise to you right now is that I’m going to skin Dick fucking Roman alive and throw him into Hell myself if I have to. But after that….” His pause made Sam look over. Dean held his gaze.   
  
“Maybe we could rest, Sam. Maybe we could really, truly rest.”   
  
Sam didn’t say anything, but Dean didn’t expect him to.   
  
He watched Sam roll over, and then he took a long swig of the now nearly empty bottle still sitting on the nightstand before heading to the bathroom.   
  
Dean just hoped they could both hold on long enough to keep his promises.


End file.
